


The Better Part Of Wisdom

by electroniccollectiondonut



Series: A Different War [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Butterfly Effect, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Prologue, Two Endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroniccollectiondonut/pseuds/electroniccollectiondonut
Summary: Thingol doesn't ask for a Silmaril.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel
Series: A Different War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603360
Comments: 21
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Another Man's Treasure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009349) by [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm). 



> READ THIS BEFORE YOU READ THE FIC
> 
> So, this is kind of complicated (to me at least) but I'll do my best to explain it. This fic actually has two endings. This work specifically will have four chapters. After that, it splits off into what I like to call the good route and the bad route, but actually both are pretty dark. Each possible ending will be posted as it's own work in the series. If you can't wait for me to get it written or it doesn't make sense, go check out the corresponding bullet point fic on Drag0nst0rm's profile. Or if you don't want spoilers but this explanation is as confusing as I think it is then go ahead and let me know in the comments and I'll try to be a little more eloquent.

The floor is uncomfortably cold and slick beneath him, and he glances to Luthien, standing barefoot beside him like the unnatural chill and smoothness of the wood doesn’t bother her in the slightest. He speaks, hardly listening to what words escape his mouth beyond that they are a request of marriage. Instead, he focuses on taking in what he can of the throne room.

It’s grown from the highest boughs of the great network of trees that forms Menegroth, with no ceiling. He can see the roof of the cave that houses the city above him, dark gray speckled with a shimmer that he can’t definitively call water. The wood itself is pale brown, growing in a twisting mesh over odd shaped windows and blocking the doorway with a curtain of string thin, leafy branches.

Luthien is bright in the twilight dimness, her white skin glowing, catching the deep blue of her dress and turning it nearly sheer. Her hair sucks away that light into a sea of inky darkness that moves a bit despite the lack of wind and the utter stillness of the rest of her body. She doesn’t quite look like her mother.

Queen Melian’s skin is an almost sickly color, her hair piled atop her head in a gravity defying updo and her eyes glowing eerie, gemstone-clear violet. She is watching Beren, even stiller than her daughter and effortlessly expressionless.

King Thingol is a strange spot of green against the violet of his wife and the blue of his daughter. In the uncanny silence of the room, Beren is hyper aware of the slight movement of Thingol’s chest as he breathes, slower and shallower than a human might. His skin is lighter than most humans Beren has met, made yet stranger by the silver hair, but it’s a shade of sunlight-on-earth that’s comfortingly natural beside Melian’s stoney grey.

The king’s eyes study him, unblinking and severe, and his brows draw downward as Beren speaks. He isn’t going to agree. Luthien had said as much on the way here, but he’d been optimistic for once and pressed on. Now he wishes he’d suggested elopement. But a glare is hardly the worst of what he’s faced over the years, so he continues to speak, letting Luthien pick up the thread of their argument when he’s finished.

Thingol narrows his eyes, lips twitching in a tiny smirk. If the scruffy woodsman wishes to marry his daughter, he must first prove his worth. And he is the king, there is none who can stop him from setting a task that will kill the Man before he can return.

“Slay one hundred orcs and bring to me proof, Son of Men, that you can protect my daughter as well as I. Only then will you be allowed to wed.”

The Man’s eyes widen in clear surprise, then his face splits into a grin like the demand is entirely reasonable. Luthien’s mild expression does not change, but Thingol can see the worry in her eyes. In time, he hopes, she will realize that he is doing this for her own well-being. For now, Thingol scowls as the Man sweeps his daughter into an embrace, laying a chaste kiss on her lips.

Luthien responds to the kiss wholeheartedly, trying her best to ignore the seed of despair taking root deep inside her. Beren is smiling at her like her father has decided to let them wed right here and now, and she’s heard what he’s done, but she knows her father, and she knows that Beren isn’t supposed to come back from this mission.

She turns to her parents, her fingers still interlaced with Beren’s. “Thank you,” she says, gracefully as the princess she is. “Of course,” she continues, eyes narrowing a tiny bit, “you’ll supply Beren for the trip.”

“What?” her father asks, like the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. It likely hasn’t, Luthien knows, as their eyes meet in a clash of wills.

“Your task is meant to prove that he will be able to adequately protect me when we marry,” she says, light tone belying her steely gaze. “When we marry, he will have full access to all the resources Doriath has to offer, as the prince. Your task should mimic those conditions, no?”

Her father nods once, grudgingly, and Luthien allows the slightest of smiles to grace her lips.

“Then the least you can do is offer him travelling supplies.”

Her father holds her gaze for long minutes before he concedes and calls for a servant to pack a bag. Beren is looking at her like she’s some miracle sent down from the heavens, and she smiles at him, letting all her hope shine through.

The next day, she walks with Beren to the outermost edge of Menegroth, their fingers tightly intertwined. The sunlight slants down golden through the canopy high above, and it feels just like any other day. It’s wrong, she thinks. Beren is leaving to get himself killed. The weather should be grey and ominous.

The border guards stand stoic, waiting for Beren to walk past. Luthien stops and tugs on his hand just a bit. He turns to meet her eyes, a questioning expression on his face. Luthien opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut and pulls him towards her in a kiss, holding on like she’ll lose him if she lets go.

They break apart when one of the guards clears his throat pointedly, but they stay standing close together. “Be safe,” Luthien says. “Come back to me whole and healthy.”

“Of course,” Beren agrees, though he really isn’t concerned. A hundred orcs will be difficult, yes, but it’s far from impossible. “I’ll return to you before the year is out.”

Luthien nods, but the worried look doesn’t leave her face as she releases his hand and he turns and walks out of Menegroth. He notices that the guard looks very sceptical of his statement. He goes roughly southwest for the first day or so, angling toward places where he knows there are many orcs.

He’s still, technically, in the woods of Doriath when night falls, though he’s fairly sure that he’s not inside the odd magical barrier. He makes camp in a little hollow at the base of an almost unnaturally large tree, where the earth is carpeted with leaves that are only slightly damp.

He clears a little spot for a fire and digs through his pack, frowning as he realizes how little it actually holds. When he’d first picked it up, he’d attributed the lightness to some kind of elvish magic, but now he sees that that isn’t the case. There isn’t enough here to last him long enough to hunt and kill a hundred orcs.

He thinks on it as he has a small dinner. He knows that there are a few scattered human villages in the direction he’s going, but none of them are well-off enough to provide him with supplies.

Nargothrond is.

The thought comes unbidden as he snuffs out his fire and lies down to sleep. Nargothrond _could_ provide him with what he needs, and King Finrod owes his family a debt. A few weeks or a month or two of supplies is a reasonable request, he’s sure. But Nargothrond is more southerly than his current course, and the lands around it are less hostile. It would take longer to get the kill count he needs.

On the fifth night, he’s camping at the crest of a hill, his cloak wrapped around him to keep out the slight windchill. There are three left orc ears in a bag in the bottom of his pack from a little skirmish as evening fell. The pack is getting lighter each day. It isn’t going to last him all the way through this mission, and he has no coin to buy from the villages. Nargothrond is a straight shot south of his camp, about three days’ walk.

In the morning, he angles himself south. He’s greeted at Nargothrond’s gate by a bright eyed young human girl three days later. He asks to see King Finrod, and the girl tells him to follow her, then darts off into the city, weaving her way through humans and dwarves and elves with ease as he struggles to keep sight of her.

The city is beautiful, with its high, arcing ceilings built in an elvish style with all the skill of the dwarves. It’s also loud and crowded. People mill about in the public areas, and even as Beren turns to follow the girl into the more inner, private rooms where he can meet the king, the corridors are bustling with lords and ladies and servants all hurrying to get somewhere. The girl comes to a halt in front of a tall, almost gaudily decorated door, so abruptly that Beren walks past her and has to backtrack.

“The king is in there?” he asks, and she nods, then runs off the other way.

Well, Beren thinks as he knocks on the door, here goes nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Finrod is doing paperwork. It’s boring and it really isn’t getting them any closer to defeating Morgoth. He could delegate it to Orodreth and Finduilas, except that he really can’t. Finduilas spends all her time with Gwindor, and he won’t begrudge her that love, and if he has Orodreth do it, he has nothing to keep his mind away from darker thoughts. He glances up from deciphering a financial report written in bad handwriting and Taliska at a knock on his office door.

“Enter,” he calls, loudly enough that he knows the sound will pass through the stone. The door swings open to admit a human man who looks rather hesitant. Finrod stands and casts him an easy smile. He looks familiar, with scruffy dark brown hair that’s only a shade or two darker than his skin that falls nearly to his shoulders and dark blue eyes, though his clothes are roughspun and very travel worn. Still, Finrod doesn’t think he’s seen this particular man before, so he holds out his hand and introduces himself.

“I’m Finrod, son of Finarfin, king of Nargothrond.”

The man shakes his hand, looking more at ease but still not smiling. “Beren, son of Barahir. I’ve come to call on your debt.”

Finrod rocks back on his heels, letting the smile drop. “Of course.” He gestures for Beren to sit and returns to his own chair. “What would you ask of me?”

“Supplies. Enough for a few weeks at least, and likely more.”

The request is underwhelming. Supplies are merely a basic hospitality, and Finrod wonders what could make Beren think otherwise. Unless perhaps he wants something expensive or rare? Finrod contemplates this for a moment. He must have been quiet for longer than he realized, as Beren begins to speak once more.

“You see,” Beren begins to explain, somewhat nervous about how long the king has been quiet, “I am to marry Luthien, but only if I can prove to King Thingol that I can protect her. He’s asked me to slay one hundred orcs and bring him proof of the deed, but my supplies won’t last long enough for me to complete my task.”

King Finrod is silent for half a moment more, then he grins and stands, beckoning for Beren to follow him out the door and into the corridors. “Luthien of Doriath?” he asks, and Beren notices that his request has still gone unanswered.

He nods.

Finrod’s smile widens. “You can have all the supplies you need. But I think I should inform you that that is merely a hospitality, not a debt repaid. I’ll gather a few of my men, we can go with you.”

Beren shakes his head. “No, I have to get the kill count myself. You don’t need to do that.”

But Finrod only waves him off. “Nonsense, it’s always safer to go orc hunting in a group than alone, and even if you do have to complete the task alone, we can still watch your back. And besides that,” he continues, growing a bit more serious, “I’m past ready to do something substantial against Morgoth.”

Beren can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t. Instead, he agrees to stay in Nargothrond for a few days while Finrod and his men prepare.

It’s interesting, he thinks, watching the politics play out between Finrod and his cousins, and also likely good practice for the role he’ll have to take as Luthien’s husband. It takes time for Finrod to arrange things to where he can leave for months at a time. The king’s cousins, Beren comes to learn, are called Curufin and Celegorm, and they are more often than not petty and rude.

They make snide remarks about Doriath and about humans, and they scoff when Finrod puts his nephew in charge. A fair portion of the elvish lords and ladies seem to follow their lead. Beren doesn’t like them, and he’s glad when Finrod’s party is at last ready to leave.


End file.
